Playtime For Mistress Boobilicious

Mistress Boobilicious’ dungeon is the only one that has people sneaking in rather than attempting to escape. Generous as she is, Mistress Boobilicious welcomes all comers, immediately stripping them, chaining them to the wall, gagging them and putting clamps on their nipples and genitals. Then they are often forgotten for large stretches of time, sometimes months. But Mistress Boobilicious, upon returning, sees that the dead are disposed of so the smell won’t bother the survivors. And that’s when the real fun begins. The wait is worth it for those still alive.

Brain

Sometimes at work when my brain realizes I won’t be using it, it crawls out of my skull and slips into this little car it had built and travels around town. It’s fine. I usually don’t miss it. But today during its travels my brain ran over a small family, injuring three of the tiny people and angering the fourth. Authorities suspect it may have been drinking, but I believe it was being reckless just for the sake of being reckless, finding some stimulation in the the high speeds on the suburban streets before returning to work to help me keep other crew members quiet in the back yard of someone's home. Who could blame the bugger for getting a few kicks? But I suppose I should keep a closer eye on it, and try to find ways of keeping it stimulated that don't involve harming pedestrians. We'll see...

Pop-Ups: A Brief Love Story

The two things I least enjoy doing as a production assistant are getting breakfast orders and setting up (or taking down) pop-up tents. I’m not alone in that, of course. Matt and I had a long conversation about it on the set of Major Crimes, immediately after which he and I were asked to break down all the tents at catering, along with several tables and chairs, and it was like a hundred degrees out. It’s become a running joke on a couple of the sets where I work, as every day, it seems, pop-ups are needed and it lands on me to get them.

So what I’ve done is embrace the beast. This morning soon after arriving at work, I asked, “Can I take some pop-up tents to set?” For a moment, it seemed this tactic had worked some unforeseen magic, and my query was greeted with mild laughter, and no mention of pop-ups was made again. For an hour. Then I was told a pop-up would be delivered to set and I was to set it up when it did. I waited for it for a time, but it did not arrive, and soon I became busy keeping cars and pedestrians from leaving a doughnut shop parking lot, and thought nothing of the pop-up.

When we got back to the stages, I learned that indeed it had been sent, only it never arrived. I checked the sound trailer, where it normally lives with its twin, but it was not there. So I was placed in charge of discovering its whereabouts, a task to which I admit a certain lack of enthusiasm. Rumor had it that it was still in the van, so I sent word to transpo about it and left it in their capable hands.

By the way, Matt recently took a staff position on a new show, and told me pop-ups are a thing of his past. But every once in a while, when the mood is right, I send him a message, soliciting his help in putting up a tent or two. He always ignores me.

The Sun, That Bastard

The object of the game for me is to remain in the shade as much as possible whenever we’re on location. Today it was Chatsworth, deep in the valley, where the sun rules supreme and unchallenged, abides by no boundaries, knows no restrictions, sneaking into all corners and nooks, beating at us from all angles. Even when we think we’re safe from the light, the heat comes at us from all sides. I find it difficult to understand people in the heat, and perhaps even more difficult to make them understand me. My thoughts become incomprehensible and jumbled even to me, as portions of my brain shut down in some sort of sad and futile protest. The sun is not my friend, and proves this by damaging my light skin whenever we’re near each other. Of course without it, we’d all die – there’s that. It’s like a rich uncle who pays your rent but then stops by to beat you every morning. Today the sun followed me into the men’s room and had its way with me, leaving its mark on all my exposed skin, claiming me as its bitch.

Mistress Boobilicious Raids Again

Mistress Boobilicious turns criminals and angels into desperate, eager beasts, agape, hands out, bent over to her will, anticipating their own destruction. And with her potent rubber rod she reduces all within a two-mile radius to speechless, servile creatures, removing all the human qualities she has no use for, covering them in furs, putting them on all fours, owning them, using them, discarding them, and moving on. Men wait in trepidation and excitement for her arrival, and then despair at her departure. She’ll own the world, and she knows it.

Football

The Red Sox have had an awful year, so football season starts earlier for me than usual. I tend to miss the first several Patriots games because I don't start watching football until baseball is done. This year, however, the Red Sox were finished before the All Star break (though, even now, I think, hey, they're not mathematically out of it yet).

So bring on the Pats! I am so glad Tom Brady is going to be able to play. And, by the way, please stop talking about "Deflategate." Actually, you can go ahead and talk about it, but please stop using the term "Deflategate." I really hate how everything becomes Something-gate. Look, Watergate was the name of the hotel and complex where the break-in occurred. It wasn't some controversy involving water. If it had happened at the Hilton, would you be calling this football issue Deflateton? It's fucking retarded, so just stop it.

Thank you.

Go Pats!